December 2008

Way down South in the land of Spanish moss and low-gradient streams, a place where I can see more of my most favorite road signs, 'PAVEMENT ENDS AHEAD', than any place else, the winter wetlands stitch a line of little bon-bons across my camera's heart.

No chestnuts by an open fire this season for me. No stockings hung by the chimney with or without care. No sharp-toed reindeer prancing on my already damaged and leaking roof. No credit crunch, unpaid mortgages, oil crises, or unsustainable bailouts. The time has come for me to face the Holiday's challenges directly.

Parts of Alexander County are very friendly to backroad gawking and photography. This shot, taken a week ago today, is the first from my recent winter trip. Ground level steaming from winter dew did not show as well as I had hoped. Heart level steaming was unaffected.

Highland County, headwaters of the Potomac and James River basins, is by any measure a magnificently beautiful place. Add to this, for an unforgettable experience, the charm of a mountain sheep ranch bathed in supple winter light.

Much can be said, and much has already been written about the Greenbrier River and Pocahontas County - its frontier history, the timber era, ridge to ridge natural beauty, and the hard life in these rugged mountains. Yet, the small, the seemingly insignificant, are worthy of notice. Like the crust of left over snow accenting exposed rocks near the scenic railroad station at Cass.

For generations John Furrow's family owned and cared for this magnificent farm in Waiteville. Headwaters Potts Creek in the foreground. Potts Mountain and Virginia in the background. Peters Mountain and West Virginia behind me. I pass thru here nearly every year to photograph the family house, out buildings, winding creek, lane to house, shed where his grandfather was born, horses, sunrises, sunsets, rain, clear, overcast and now, winter for the first time. Often I see John outside doing stuff, chores, feeding livestock, mowing hay, mending fences, too many demands to list. Way back, I helped him fix a hay baler (the old kind) that slipped a chain drive or something. Actually, I was more in the way than helpful. But, John's very friendly and didn't seem to mind. He told me about the history of Waiteville: the railroad and timber years, his family and farming. I fell in love with this farm, its beauty and remoteness and asked John if I could stay in the farmhouse while writing my book. He beamed. "No one lives there now," yet he offered to spruce it up, put in some furniture and appliances, turn on power and heat, and make it available and comfortable. My ultimate fantasy, perpetuated with each visit, with each photograph.